


to the victor go the spoils

by hisgirltuesday (burntcookiies)



Category: Maximum Ride - James Patterson
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Canon timeframe, F/M, High School, Light Angst, SOF, Teen Angst, Virginia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3644556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burntcookiies/pseuds/hisgirltuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jealousy isn't a good color on you. —In this game, there is no room for hearts. Make sure your blades are sharp; your words sharper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. think there's a flaw in my code

**Author's Note:**

> Word vomit and all that jazz, courtesy of writer's block. SOF oriented. Special thanks to Fleck bc you encourage me more than you know xx  
> Will be continued indefinitely.

* * *

She kisses him when he's broken and bleeding on the white sand of a beach somewhere off the coast of New York with a sunset framed in crimson in the background. It's a rushed and desperate kind of kiss and Max can still taste the blood on her teeth long after she licks her lips and swallows, all metal and copper on her tongue.

She remembers the way Fang had stared at her with a startled and  _what-did-you-just-do_  kind of look on his face with his hair wild and messed up, slicked with sand and seawater.

It was just a simple kiss, she tells herself, long after she'd gotten him cleaned up along with the rest of the Flock, a kiss-me-because-I'm-dying type of thing and it doesn't mean what some people would say otherwise.

Simple, short, sweet—the latter makes her gag—but it's hardly anything to remember all the same, a crappy-sort-of-first-kiss kind of thing. They'll forget about it in the morning as soon as dawn comes and when other important matters come to mind. Like hunting down Ari and ripping his wings out, preferably over the Atlantic because she's ninety percent sure that swimming is not his strongest suit.  _See_ , she thinks,  _a more important goal already._

Or that's what she tells herself, over and over again, when they're setting up their sleeping bags underneath some willow trees off the shore. She lays theirs out side-by-side—like always—and they settle in when it's all dark and she can see stars between the leaves. And Max tries not to think about the way she can still feel his gaze on the back of her head.

* * *

Virginia is, for the most part, boring. Boring and normal but she thinks she shouldn't be complaining because for the first time in what felt like forever, she has clothes that actually fit, hot showers every day, and meals that weren't the product of dumpster diving. She has a roof over her head and a life she'd only thought she's missed, but she's learned to count her blessings and take what she could get.

School, however, is another thing altogether. School is waking up at six-thirty in the morning, fighting for the bathroom and breakfast at seven, crowding into Anne's oversized black SUV at seven-thirty. School is seven hours of mindless lecturing in pastel and faux wood classrooms with sawdust desks, seven hours of being around people she had to pretend to like. Smile, nod politely, act normal,  _pretend_  —rinse, wash, repeat.

It gets tiring after the first two days and she hates it even more when she sees Fang pressed up against some girl with hair the color of sun burning up ocean sky. She doesn't know why her heart suddenly clenches—liar, her mind hisses; she knows it's true—and she turns away, back into the too-bright hallways of the school and lets her feet carry her to an unoccupied restroom, where she just kind of drops her bag and leans against the sink, hands on the shiny veneer, eyes staring down at her reflection.

The Voice—the stupid and annoying and wannabe-life-mentor Voice—spews out something along the lines of  _jealously_  and  _hormones_  and whatnot and it's really not helping, thank you very much and her reflection only shrugs in apparent apathy. _Like that's really your biggest problem,_ she seems to say.

Max punches the mirror, then, white knuckled and steel boned, half-moons imprinted on her palms. The mirror only rattles loudly (too loudly) against tile and her reflection smirks right back at her—cheap plastic, you know, in case something like this happens—and she grabs her backpack, storming out the door only to crash into Iggy who tells her that they were just looking for her and Anne's here to pick them up so maybe she could get a move on?

She punches Iggy on his shoulder and lets him guide her out of the maze of hallways she swears (and swears again) she'll never be familiar with and out into the too-bright sunlight.

She doesn't sit next to Fang and ignores his questioning look, opting to take a seat next to Nudge, who's recalling about all the exciting details about her day to Angel, who's nodding at appropriate times, hands clasped together on her lap. The fifteen minute drive back to Anne's freaking mansion slash plantation seems far too long now.

Max avoids (ignores) Fang's gaze for the second time, thinking,  _you've got some shit to think about._

Did she ever.

* * *

"You know," she drawls slowly, conversationally, three days after she's done her part in thinking, "Sam asked me out on a date."

Fang's lying face-down on his bed before she walks in, and shifts so that he's on his side, facing her as she leans against the bedroom door.

"I believe you've established that at dinner," he says, running a hand through his hair, staring her down through his bangs. The light in the corner casts shadows across his face, but she knows him well enough to know that he's patiently waiting for her to elaborate on whatever she decides to tell him.

"I did," she replies, and twists a hand on the metal doorknob, the other resting on her hip. "And I was wondering when you would tell me about your date—" she pauses, and looks straight at him "—with Lissa."

He blinks, or at least she thinks he blinked. "Friday after school. At that cute contemporary cafe right next to the bookstore. Her idea."

Okay then.

"Cute," she says, and walks towards Iggy's bed, unceremoniously dropping herself down on his fluffy blue comforter and messing up his pillows. "She's a nice girl. Pretty," she says, "and normal. Must be nice for a change."

It feels nice to lie and be herself again, to drop all the pretenses of being Maxine Ride, fugitive turned rural country girl with five adoptive siblings in tow, living in a place in Virginia that will never be called home.

Fang snorts and sits up so he's facing her, eye to eye, and rests his hands on black pajamas pants. "I don't think you came here to talk about Sam or Lissa or school but I know you well enough to know that you're not spilling everything. We can either sit here all night—or at least until Iggy comes out of the bathroom and kicks you out—and take our time dancing around some topic about school or we can actually talk."

She brings her legs up and sits criss-cross-applesauce, with her back against the wall, thinking that'll she probably regret this but Virginia is killing her and she desperately needs a distraction and bad decisions make good stories, right? "Let's do something. Stop pretending and just let go." Leans forward, then, and watches him carefully, shadows dancing across his face and all. "Let's forget about our parents. Sure, we have the files from Itex and everything, but there's time for that later. Think about it: when's the last time we ever enjoyed ourselves? So we should just be normal, or as normal we can possibly get. Everyone else is having fun."

Fang inclines his head and waits for her to go on and she swallows, blocking all the white noise in her head and her way her heart thuds against her ribs. "You, me, we're going to rule the school. Ace as many classes as we can with our limited knowledge of Algebra and Biology, date as many people we feel like it, and come out at the top of everything."

Fang raises a brow and she can't really blame him, she's half mortified and half determined to finish up her speech, godammit because—

"And the first to not live up to the expectations, loses."

—she's Max and she's a leap-before-you-think, act-and-ignore-the-consequences kind of girl. Pretty reckless, brash and bold. You know, the type of person who wasn't afraid to touch fire to see if it was as hot as everyone said it would be. Stubborn until the end, especially when it came to the matters of the heart. Mind over matter has always been a rule of thumb.

"What if I don't want to play?" Dark eyes glint beneath shaggy black hair and they both know the answer that's hanging in the air between them.

She raises her chin. "Then I win."

* * *

They're both up before anyone else the next morning and he's there, leaning against the open bathroom door when she sets her toothbrush down on the sink counter, rinsing the toothpaste out of her mouth, hair tied in a messy ponytail.

"Morning," is all he says, and she wonders about when she was so eager to dig her own grave.

"One month," she replies, hazel clashing with dark brown. "And no more."

Max tells herself that one month's not too long and marvels about how easily a lie could sound so like the truth if one wanted it to.

* * *

She has all but two classes with him, but it doesn't matter much because she'd managed to convince Iggy—I know I gave you hell for the stink bomb, she'd said, but think you can do it again?—to keep not-so-subtle tabs on everything for her and maybe because she's too nosy for her own good, asks him about what he thinks of Lissa and Fang.

"I'm not sure," he replies as they're walking to lunch together from English, "I haven't had an actual conversation with her but if Fang's coming out of his brooding emo phase, then I'm good."

"I guess," she replies, and shifts her books to her left arm as she reaches out and pushes the cafeteria doors open. She's still thinking over last night and thinking about all the ways it could've gone better and all the ways she could've just talked it out because best friends shouldn't fuck around like this.

"Max," Iggy says, stopping her in her tracks. His sightless baby blues stare right at her and she shifts her books again, twining her hands together. "Whatever you've talked about with Fang last night—"

"Don't worry, Iggs." She continues walking toward the lunch line and picks up overcooked spaghetti, lukewarm milk, and a pristine Washington apple. "We were just discussing the topic of normality. Or lack of, anyway."

* * *

She tries. Really, really hard.

But seriously, somebody should've told her that dating was the equivalent of pulling teeth—it's a crash course of knowing when to push and pull, knowing when to hit and when to run. It's nothing like what she'd seen in movies—you can't trust Hollywood, anyway—where people just know what to ask and have answers within a few seconds of quick thinking. But then again, the only movies she's ever had the good fortune of seeing were the old corny ones back when Jeb was still around.

(The people with blinding smiles and made-up faces, she knows that it's all part of the act but really, it's because they had no secrets to hide and—)

"So, Max. I know this is nothing fancy but the pasta they serve here is to die for."

It takes a few seconds to jerk her back into reality and Max quickly shrugs, aiming for the nonchalant and flippant look. The way to her heart was through her stomach, anyway, and she tells him just that.

"It's okay," she relies easily. "The food's the most important thing. The restaurant can be gilded gold for all I care, but if their food is the equivalent of coal, I'll tell them where to shove it."

Sam laughs (genuinely, she notes) and holds the door open for her. Max smells lasagna the minute she walks in and her stomach immediately growls. The place—rustic cabin themed with real wooden rafters and cottage-esque windows—is only mildly packed and their server, a pretty blonde with clear blue eyes, leads them to a corner table where Sam also holds a chair out for her.

Everything goes smoothly from there as Sam points out his recommendations on the menu and doesn't make any comment on how she insists on having her own plate of pasta. She sits with her back to the wall and watches as Sam greets waiters and waitresses with easy smiles and she's thinking that it's such a pity that someone like him—bright-eyed and genuine and warm—was such on liking someone like her.

Everything continues to run smoothly, until, of course, when they're almost finished and waiting for dessert.

It's the part that makes her want to cringe in ever cheap chick flick she's ever watched.

The conversation begins with small talk but with every question asked and answered, she feels like choking on her glass of sprite as it slowly veers off to forbidden waters she doesn't feel like treading anytime soon.

"My little sister's always asking me if high school's scary and every time she asks that, I have to tell her no—it's not as scary as it is boring."

Max continues to take small sips until she realizes that it was probably her turn to say something to fill the silence that comes after.

"My siblings are okay with everything since three of us are in high school already and it's nothing new."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "Lucky you. So how is it living with five siblings?"

She swallows.

"Honestly, it's kinda great," Max says, and she feels that this is the only truth Sam's gonna get for the rest of the night."We may not get along for 24/7, but it's nice to know that somebody is always going to be around when you wanna talk about your problems."

Sam nods and leans forward, and there's no avoiding the plunge into topics she'd prayed that she'd avoid, prayed that Sam would do all the talking while she scarfed down the best lasagna she's probably ever eaten.

"So tell me more about yourself."

Max fingers a strand of dirty blond and prepares to tell the well-rehearsed lies she's spun in her head a thousand times over. She remembers going over it with Iggy—Fang would've declared her weak and demand his immediate reward to her bet—and the speech comes tumbling out before she has the time to doubt herself.

She tells him about the places she got to stay in while her missionary parents traveled, rattling off big cities like Los Angeles, New York, and Detroit, just to name a few. She tells him of the people and friends she met and lost, spins lie after lie just because she can and Sam wouldn't know any better.

And it feels good in that moment because at that point in time, she wasn't Maximum Ride, failed experiment and wanted fugitive, leader of a Flock that bore more scars and bad memories that she could ever keep track of. Right now, she was Maxine Ride, missionary kid with a clean track record, five siblings in tow in rural Virginia.

Their dessert comes but Sam's attention is still fixated on her story.

"I guess my life's kinda exciting," she says, splitting the chocolate cake down the middle, "but I'll admit that this break of normality is what I needed."

Fabricated Max smiles with all teeth at Sam, pushing his slice towards him. He blinks, surprised, but finally shrugs and thanks her with a blinding grin.

The lies hanging in the air between them twinkle, but do not shatter.

* * *

They're waiting for the bill to come when she happens to look over Sam's shoulder at the window behind him when she sees it—a near perfect reflection of her, staring right back with dark eyes and mouth set in a smirk.

"What—"

Sam looks back up and shoots her a questioning look.

"My reflection," she stammers, raising a hand to point past his shoulder.

Sam shifts and turns around to look, effectively blocking her view for a split second.

But like a good little fugitive like her knows that a second meant the difference between life and death, staying hidden and being found.

Her reflection's gone by the time Sam turns back around, a more than puzzled look visible on his face.

Her stomach drops and she quickly fumbles for an explanation. "Sorry—it was actually another blonde girl looking in."

Sam accepts the apology—just like that—and Max continues to play Maxine Ride, a perfectly sane type of girl, instead of Maximum Ride, a too-paranoid kind of girl with a crazy Voice in her head that never did offer advice when she really needed it.

* * *

Fang's lounging on one of the living room couches with a Chemistry book sprawled across his lap.

He raises a brow when he sees her, a silent inquiry of how it went and whether or not he should be celebrating if she failed and he now had the upper hand.

Max flips her hair and throws him a smile that she knows doesn't reach her eyes. "You can carve a 'plus one' under my name now."

* * *


	2. mouth full of white lies

That night, Max spends a long time sitting criss-cross-applesauce on her bed facing the mirror with her hands clasped together. She’s looking at the way her face is scrunched up when she’s deep in thought—eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line, hair falling into her eyes—and wonders if what she saw wasn’t a product of paranoia.

“I’m not seeing things,” she says aloud and watches the way her mouth forms the words in her reflection even though her voice isn’t exactly as steady as usual.

Max clears her throat and tries again.

“I,” she says, but doesn’t get very far before her breath catches and she has to blink twice to regain focus.

Instead, she twists her hands in her lap and wills the words to be true.

* * *

Fang is three seconds away from closing the bathroom door when Max wedges a foot into the crack, effectively jarring the door back open. “Hold up,” she commands, and wrestles her way into the ridiculously oversized bathroom—Anne called it the “shared community bathroom”—and quickly shuts the door once she’s in.

“You do realize that there’s another bathroom three hallways down, right next to the stairs?” Fang raises an inquiring brow, his hand still on the doorknob.

“It’s a long story,” she says (even though it really isn’t) but she really needs a good excuse (he was about to shower, after all) and Max needs to get this issue off her mind before she spends the night worrying. “And before you make any assumptions, this is not about the date.”

(Max makes sure to enunciate the last few words for good measure; a small smirk on Fang’s face gives it all away, and she can’t find it in herself to do the same.)

He’s staring a little expectantly at her now, head tilted slightly to the right with the signature spill look in his eyes.

She takes a breath.

_“I-think-I-saw-another-me-through-a-window-and-I-think-I’m-going-crazy-and-I-really-don’t—”_

“Woah, Max. Slow down.” She’s got her words all over the place and she doesn't notice when he’s got his hands on her shoulders and he’s gently steering her towards the edge of the bathtub, carefully instructing her to sit down. “Breathe.”

Once her heart rate slows down, she finally looks at him through lowered lashes from her seat on the edge of the tub to his on the tiled floor. His hair is messy and wild and his shirt’s off; her eyes trace the scar across his abdomen for a second before she meets his eyes.

“I saw another me in a window,” she says quietly, keeping her gaze steady on his. “I know it’s impossible, but it wasn’t my reflection for sure because she moved when I was sitting down.”

Fang’s eyes are clear of judgement, and he jerks his head a little for her to continue her story.

“And that’s not even the worst part—I think I saw Ari too.” Her eyes flicker down to his scar again and her hands involuntarily clench into fists. She feels sick now, now that everything’s out in the open and the absolute reality of it all comes crashing down.

“So what are we going to do?” His voice is calm and steady, but that does little to calm her nerves. For the first time, she’s at a loss at what to do. To take off now (like many times before) would only let Ari know that he’s got them rattled and to stay would be placing their lives at the mercy of Jeb and the other Whitecoats.

And because she’s kind of girl who who try to touch fire to try to prove a point that yes, you would get burnt and raises a finger up to the rest of the world just to see if life could finally break her in ways she’d never thought she could be broken in, Max lets a slow exhale and raises a brow at Fang.

“If he wants us,” she says, “then he should come get us.”

* * *

When Max first proposed the bet, she hadn’t counted on school interactions—it had conveniently escaped her notice that even though Sam was only in two of her classes, he had an uncanny ability to track her down after first period and insisted on walking her to her classes. It makes her self-conscious for the first few days and it takes her a week to feel less like an over-pampered animal.

Even though was sweet of him, she admits, but actions like those were mentally categorized under shit she couldn’t handle and she retains her habit of holding her own books even though Sam offers to hold them for her every day, something JJ thought was unbearably cute.

(But Max just honestly thinks that someone else up there loves to screw with her; making him like someone that will break his heart.)

* * *

“I find it rather unfair that you have three classes with Fang while I just have one with him.” Max has to shout to Iggy over the clamor in the lunch lines, and he shoots her an unimpressed look.

“I find it rather unfair too, that I have the fortune of spending my other three classes with you—which gives me less time to socialize with people who actually appreciate my presence,” Iggy replies and she rolls her eyes. So maybe she’d set herself up for that one, but she’d hoped that he would let something slip about Fang and Lissa. She was pretty sure she was a couple of points ahead of Fang in “normality”, meaning that she’d gotten a decent grade on a test and she’d let let Sam kiss her cheek without shying away the next second.

They lapse into a comfortable silence when they’re nearing the front of the lunch line; Max is internally debating on whether she should get the macaroni and cheese that tasted vaguely of burnt plastic or the lasagna that left a peculiar aftertaste.

“What are they serving today?” Iggy asks her, and when she turns to tell him the options she spies Fang not too far away; she lifts her hand so a wave but he doesn’t turn her way at all, she frowns a little and follows his gaze, where Lissa is leaning against a column with her lunch tray of lasagna and salad, chatting with JJ.

“Hello? Earth to Max?”

She blinks. “Oh, right. Your choice of mac n’ cheese, lasagna, burritos, hamburger with mystery meat, or salad.”

When it’s her turn to pick, she smiles brightly and points at the macaroni and cheese. “I’ll have that and no salad, please. I’d rather have an apple.”

She waits for Iggy to pick his lunch—burritos and salad—and waits for him to call her out when they’re walking to their lunch table.

He doesn’t disappoint.

“You hate apples.”

* * *

When she gets home, Max heads straight to her room, locks her door, and throws herself face-down on her bed.

She’s never mentioned this with anyone, but the thing with Lissa and Fang was that they were so easy with each other.

(Lissa would do do the talking for the both of them at their lunch table, Fang would crack a small smile at her antics, she’d shoot him a grin in return. She’d nudge him playfully once in awhile and he’ll pretend not to feel it. She’ll steal his share of salad and give him half of her lasagna. She’ll talk about her own life in snapshots and wouldn’t pressure him to tell him about his; she’s warm and good and kind with no sharp edges to her smile,

and Fang—

he wouldn’t walk her to classes but he’ll wait for her at the school gates whenever Anne drove them to school five minutes early, he wouldn’t tell Lissa that she looked particularly beautiful today but she could see it in his eyes through and through.)

The Voice tells her that she’s obsessing. _Tells her, isn’t this what you wanted? You wanted to play with fire, you wanted a chance to—_

 _Shut up,_ she thinks. Max knew what she wanted, and what she wanted now was a new plan.

She lifts her head and spies the inconspicuous purple folder stuffed with Itex addresses under sheets of paper on her desk.

Wonderful.

* * *

“So tell me, if you had a chance to reunite with your parents—for the sake of this argument, let’s just say that they’re nice and decent people—would you go? Would you just let yourself go and be normal? Be happy?”

The question sounds stupid once she realizes that yes, she just really asked that aloud to Fang. They’re sitting on Anne’s swing set out in the massive backyard; adrenaline still racing through her veins. The folder is in her lap and Max looks over to Fang for his answer. His hands are on the chain and he’s dragging his feet across the sand; there’s a pause before he answers.

“No,” he says. She can’t see his expression in the dark but she knows him well enough that the short pause had nothing to do with whatever the was thinking about saying. “I’ve never been one to wish for something more.”

“You wouldn’t take the chance?” she presses.

He scoffs, and she hears the _are you serious Max_ in it.

“Humor me.” Humor me because sometimes I need to be grounded once in awhile. Humor me because with this bet going on, I can’t see through the haze sometimes.

“If you think giving everyone up would magically fix everything, then you’re wrong,” he says. “And I already have a family.” He looks at her then; she can see the glint in his eyes when he stops swinging.

The sand crunches under his shoes as he stands up and walks over to her, standing directly in her line of vision.

“A _real shot at normality,_ ” he breathes out, “is overrated.”

(She recalls this—

_"Let's do something. Stop pretending and just let go."_

_"One month," she says, "And no more."_

_A little too much confidence, a little too much of being the kind of girl who who try to touch fire to try to prove a point that yes, you would get burnt and raises a finger up to the rest of the world just to see if life could finally break her in ways she’d never thought she could be broken in._ )

She narrows her eyes and takes his offered hand, mind swirling with all the implications of things she would rather not read into too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so before I get complaints that maybe I’ve made them a little OOC, I’m just gonna go ahead and clarify that the Fax dynamic portrayed in the books only made sense to me because every other (potential) relationship in the books either a) had so little screen time there’s literally no foundation to build upon or b) was so horribly written that trying re-write it would have most definitely given me a headache.


End file.
